


The Good Host

by raskin



Series: Out of Whitechapel [2]
Category: Lewis (TV), Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: M/M, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 09:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2304119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raskin/pseuds/raskin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three weeks after they meet in Oxford, James comes to London for the weekend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Good Host

“Well, this is it,” Emerson said, holding the door wide.

James dropped his valise inside the entrance without as much as a glance around. His gaze was fixed on his host. “It’s lovely.”

Emerson backed into the center of the front room. “How was the drive down?”

“It was hell.” James slipped his jacket from his shoulders and dropped it on top of his bag.

“The train would have been faster,” Emerson said, making conversation while he adjusted to having James here – _here!_ \-- in his home. 

He'd scrubbed the flat spotless, stocked the fridge and cupboards, and made an itinerary of things James might want to do. Tonight was a club with one of the hottest bands going. He was nervous.

James was saying, “It wasn’t the traffic that was torture.” 

Emerson’s heart skipped a beat or two. “Did you have any problem finding your way here?”

“None whatsoever,” said James with smoldering eyes, stalking forward to close the distance between them. “What with your turn-by-turn instructions, and the satellite coordinates. And the hand-drawn map illustrating the notable landmarks along the way –”

“Didn’t want to take any chances, did I?” Emerson laughed breathlessly as he took a few steps back to stay out of reach. Then he let a growling James catch him, shuddering slightly when the long arms wrapped around his waist. “The kitchen is through there…”

“Wonderful,” James mumbled against Emerson’s ear.

Emerson back-pedaled down the hall. “This is my flat mate’s bedroom,” he said at the first doorway. 

James matched him step for step while continuing to reacquaint himself with Emerson’s jawline. “Mmmm.”

“That’s the door to the loo, down at the end,” Emerson said, barely above a whisper. He tipped his head back to give James better access to the crook of his neck. 

“Good to know,” was James’ muffled reply.

“And this,” said Emerson, his back against the remaining door, “is my room.”

“Ah, finally.” And, finally, James descended on Emerson’s mouth. Showing no mercy, pressed Emerson against the door panels, pinning him in place while he slid his lips back and forth, hard and hungry. Then tilting his head, he forced Emerson’s lips apart, slipping his tongue in. 

Emerson’s hands rose to clutch at James’ neck, holding on, returning the kiss without reserve. It was frightening yet exhilarating, how much passion James showed; Emerson still could not believe it was all for him, that he inspired it. He couldn’t help the little whimpers that escaped, but he didn’t want to. Each one seemed to cause James to drive in harder. When he heard a deep moan coming from the other man’s chest, heat spiked through Emerson’s belly, and his knees buckled.

James tightened his arms around Emerson’s rib cage and tore his mouth away, leaning his forehead against the door. “God, I have lived for this.”

“It’s been awful, the last few weeks,” Emerson said into James’ neck. 

James huffed a laugh, and nibbled Emerson’s earlobe. “Been thinking about this, have you?”

“Nonstop. Well, not like _this,_ exactly. Not standing, not on the _outside_ of my bedroom door, and not clothed… Just, well, you know what I mean.”

James laughed again, low and rough. “I do indeed. Let’s not waste any more of the time.” He felt for the door knob and pushed the two into the bedroom. “And how much time have we got?”

 _The rest of our lives,_ Emerson wanted to answer. “Allowing for a shower afterwards, almost thirty minutes. If we want to catch the warm-up band.”

They locked lips again while fumbling at each other’s clothing. Emerson unbuttoned James’ shirt while James pulled Emerson’s tee up over this shoulders. They were bedside now, and James fell back onto the mattress, carrying Emerson with him. With a flick of the thumb, James had Emerson’s jeans unbuttoned, then took his time on the zipper, running a knuckle down the hard cock beneath the cotton boxers.

“Seems like you missed me, too,” he said, then in one quick movement slid jeans and boxers down over Emerson’s thighs. 

Emerson wiggled around, trying to kick his legs free without removing his hands from James’ fly. “I’ve almost got it…”

James groaned and got to his knees. “I thought you said we don’t have much time. Stop faffing about.” he said, efficiently pulling Emerson’s jeans the rest of the way off, and throwing them to the floor. His fingers went to his own fly, but stopped. 

All Emerson’s attention had been focused on what lie beneath James’ zipper, but before he could complain about being made to wait, he looked up. The look in James’ eyes had gone from wicked delight to something softer and more profound. He’d learned that it was when James’ expression was the most fixed that there was the most going on underneath. 

“I’d forgotten...,” James said slowly.

A tremor passed through Emerson’s body. He became all too aware of how exposed he was, and drew his knee up with sudden modesty.

James caught his knee, then pressed it to the side. “Let me look.”

Emerson trembled again, concentrating on the light in James’ eye, and the sensation of fingertips on the skin of his thigh.

After a long moment, James murmured, _“Never lose an opportunity of seeing anything that is beautiful; for beauty is God's handwriting - a wayside sacrament.”_

Emerson’s brow rose in question.

“Perhaps not your namesake,” James answered. “Ralph Waldo Emerson, though I like to think that he is.”

Emerson didn’t think it necessary to point out that he was more likely named for some twentieth-century North American folk musician, or a long-dead relative, or some brand of cocoa.

James’ voice was low and thick when he said, “But you are beautiful, and I’m not losing the opportunity of seeing you.”

Was he? Beautiful? And for a man like James, the golden god standing over him, to think so… How could that be? 

He felt his eyes well up, and knew that any moment now tears would be falling. He saw that James had already noticed, and feeling like a fool, turned his head to the side.

Then James was grasping his hand, drawing him up, thrusting one hand into the dark curls and wrapping the other around his lightly muscled ribs. James tightened his grip, fusing their bodies together. They remained like this for long moments, breathing in each other’s scent and matching their heartbeats. No amount of texting or talking on the phone or skyping could compare to this, and it had been a long three weeks. 

Emerson had wondered, during their time apart, if it would be different, or awkward, or strained, when they finally met again in person. “This is… This is real, isn’t it.” It was a bare whisper, breathed against James’ neck.

“Truly,” growled James, whose deep voice was incapable of whispering. “As real as it gets.”

Typical of James to make something so awesome seem so matter of fact, so natural. Emerson buried his head in the crook of James’ neck and laughed. “So I'm not dreaming, then... Welcome to Whitechapel.”

“ _So_ very glad to be here...”

Their kiss now was like a celebration. For Emerson, it said _I know this is real but I still can't believe it._ For James, it was more the sort of _I won't say the words until you're ready to hear them, but I can damn well show you._

James’ hand inched downward until it was cupping a firm, round asscheek, reminding Emerson that the needs of their bodies had yet to be satisfied. 

Emerson slid down James' long torso, until he was sitting on his heels. He was successful this time in getting the trousers undone, and slipped them from James' hips. Then he ran his index fingers just under between the waistband of James’ briefs before tugging them down just enough to expose the crown of James' cock. He looked up to find James watching him, mesmerized. 

Without taking his eyes away from James’ face, he took a light lick at the tip. “We’re not going to catch the warm-up band, are we?” 

James’ eyes fell shut. “Uhm, highly unlikely.” His voice was uncharacteristically wobbly.

“Nor the main act,” Emerson murmured, then sucked the smooth, taut head into his mouth. 

“That,” James grunted, “is doubtful.”

Emerson pulled off one last time. “We’re not leaving the flat tonight...” He jerked the briefs down to James’ knees, then took in as much of the long cock as he could manage.

“Possibly not even this bedroom.” James muttered as he wrapped his hands around Emerson’s head, tangling his fingers in the curly dark hair.

In fact, the featured band at the club down the street were probably packing up their instruments before either James or Emerson stepped foot off the bed.


End file.
